Game of Blood
by imjce
Summary: They are the sacred Nightbloods. They serve but one purpose: to one day become Heda. But when Clarke can no longer accept her fate, she is destined to be destroyed by it. Lexa will have to choose between her strong mind, or yearnful heart. Together, they will have to fight for more than just their lives. Their destiny is sealed by love & cursed by betrayal. And this is their story.


**CH 1: Bounty**

The building was old, and in near ruins. But with a lot work, and plenty of labor, it provided the perfect haven for their camp.

It was plenty spacious, too. And right now, the grand foyer was alive and buzzing with life. There were too many people crowded in one place, and too many inebriated souls to count. While the women served as handmaidens, the men drank and laughed, and they harassed everything that had a pulse. Their dirty, grubby hands cupped every pair of breast that passed, and many were enjoying the comforts of a warm mouth around their cock.

"Silence!"

The noise died down in an instant.

"You are here today because we share a common goal: the fall of Polis!"

The hall erupted in emotions.

"You have proven to the people of Polis, to that impotent man they call Heda, that they are not worthy of us!"

A roar of cheers and a thunder of applause were deafening.

"It is not Polis that rejects us, it is WE that reject their coalition! And soon, their heads will roll, and their beloved city torched! Then, and only then, will we take back what's rightfully ours! Then, and only then, will our honor be restored!"

"Hail the Tyrant!"

"Hail the Tyrant!"

"Hail the Tyrant!"

"The Wood clan are the first to feel our wrath, but they will not be the last." The Tyrant shouted, "Now bring forth the wenches!"

More than two dozen women were brought forth, their hands bound and their legs chained. Some were injured while others bled, but none of them were clothed. They had not a shred of dignity left. And as their horrid fate would have it, it was about to get that much worse.

The Tyrant treaded down the steps, and he ran his hand across the faces of his captives. The women were dirty, filthy, and a sight for sore eyes. None of them interested him.

A mouth jumped forth. And with lightning speed and precision, sharp incisors crunched down, and tore the pinky finger clean off.

The Tyrant retracted his hand, but it was too late. The damage was done.

The fearless woman then spat the torn digit back in his face. "You bring shame upon your clan! I curse you, and all your descendents, to suffer a fate worse than Tartarus!"

"You fucking cunt!"

The Tyrant grabbed the woman by the thick of her hair, and he dragged her up the dais, for the entire world to see.

"Let it be known, that the Trikru are nothing more than our bitches! To sow and soil, as we see fit!"

And that's when all Hell broke loose. The men went berserk. They grabbed and pulled the women from all sides. There were too many pair of hands to fend off. Some tore the flesh from their bones, others violated them with their fingers, a few of the lucky ones had their necks snapped. They were spared the misery.

The women of Trikru were ravaged and raped.

The Tyrant lowered his trousers, flipped the woman over, and he took her from behind. He kept her down by the neck in a vice grip. The pain that throbbed on his right hand paled in comparison to the throb of his rock hard cock. He penetrated her, and he pounded against her backside savagely.

"I love it when they're feisty."

The Tyrant threw his hips up, and quickened his thrusts. He made damn sure to rip her in half for her defiance.

It didn't take long for the Tyrant to come. He didn't have the decency to pull out. He simply came inside her. When finally pulled out, what he saw didn't surprise him the least bit. He was lathered in bodily fluid, but it wasn't his. No. The entire length of his shaft was covered in blood.

"Your misery has only just begun."

The Tyrant picked the tattered Wood woman up, and he threw her into a sea of hungry men.

"Stupid cunt."

\- o -

It was the dead of night.

The moon was at its highest peak. This meant it was finally midnight. There wasn't a cloud in sight. It provided the perfect luminance needed for this mission.

They turned their heads, and they each made eye contact with each other.

This was it.

In perfect synchronization, like they've practiced so many times before, seven arrows shot out of the woods, and struck their targets dead in the head. It was the perfect kill shot. And even better yet, their victims didn't have time to react, much less make a peep. They died where they fell.

From the trees, seven bodies landed on the solid ground with a thud. And then one by one, they each drew their blade. Their swords varied, and differed, contoured perfectly to their hands and needs. Their blades were forged from Damascus steel; it rivaled second to none.

And they were off.

The fortress was heavily guarded, but it made no matter. Their swords slashed away with ferocity, and a trail of victims were left in their destructive path. Many fell before they could react. And the poor souls that were foolish enough to resist, and retaliate, were granted the sorrow of a slow and painful death.

They had the element of surprise. Whilst everyone slept, or were black out drunk, the Nightbloods attacked beneath the cloak of night. It wasn't honorable. But then again, there was no honor in war. And that's what this was: war. In a warring state such as this, there was no honor to speak of. You either stood with the victors, or you were a loser. There was no third option. There never is. And there never will be.

The Nightbloods marked the walls with their blood, and they stained the floor with their bodies. There were a hundred of them, and only seven of them. This wasn't even close to being a fair fight, for them, that is.

The fortress was huge. But through it all, they kept their heptagon formation. For they knew if they kept this formation, regardless of where the enemy attacked, they would be impenetrable. They were ruthless by nature, and competitive by nurture but they weren't stupid, for they knew to survive, especially on missions such as this, they needed one another. One wrong move, or one poor lapse of judgment, and their heads will part from their shoulders.

A blade pierced the lowly guard through his lower intestines, and his guts poured from the gaping wound. Death at this point was certain, but it won't be swift. He didn't deserve a quick and painless death, and Raven made certain of that.

"That should be the last of them."

"We've cleared every floor, and ransacked every room. There's no sign of the Tyrant."

One by one, they each lowered their hoods.

"This won't bode well with Heda." Bellamy said. "Our one and only mission was to find the Tyrant, and bring an end to his tyranny."

Raven sheathed her sword. "Could it be possible that he isn't here?"

"No. The Tyrant is within these walls, I'm certain of it. I saw him with my own two eyes. That monster has pillaged my village, and raped countless girls from my clan. I could never forget that face." Lincoln seethed. "Blood must have blood. He will suffer a death much worse than a thousand cuts."

"Uh. Guys...?"

"Enough of this bickering." Finn finally said. "We have our orders. Let's comb the place once more."

"Guys...?"

"What, Octavia?"

"If you guys weren't so consumed with your nonsense, you've noticed that Lexa and Clarke are gone."

They didn't know when, or how, but Octavia was right. There were only five of them. Two noticeable bodies were missing.

"How...?"

"Fuck."

"They're after the bounty."

"I thought the plan was to stick together."

"When have you ever known them to play by the rules."

Raven finally asked, "Do we even know where they went?"

\- o -

The elevator shaft was cold.

When they were sweeping the fortress, they cleared all the rooms, and every single door was accounted for. If the place had a sub-basement level, the door to access it was likely sealed off, whether by choice, or as a result of the great war, that was unclear.

Clarke had never done this before. And a part of her wished she hadn't. But she was desperate. She needed that bounty. When she first walked past the elevator, she thought nothing of it. But when the Tyrant was nowhere to be found within these walls, that's when she realized there was, perhaps, more than meets the eye. She had to pry the doors ajar with her sword. And even then, it was quite a steep drop. Luckily for her, the cables were intact, and they held.

Eventually, someway, somehow, Clarke found herself in a darkened tunnel that led away from the fortress. She had her sword out, and ready. She didn't know what to expect, only that she was expecting. That was how she was trained. And it was how she operated.

There were no windows. It was just a straight tunnel. It was lit with candles sparsely placed at intervals. It was dark. But not unusual.

The sound of raging water from a nearby dam was audible. It covered whatever residual noise that stirred. Clarke couldn't depend on her eyes, and now, she couldn't rely on her ears, either. This wasn't good. But she was in far too deep.

This went on for awhile. Further down the tunnel Clarke went.

A stray tire came flying out from nowhere, and unfortunately for Clarke, it took her by complete surprise. It struck her in the back, and it sent her, and her sword, flying.

The Tyrant ran, and closed the gap, sword swinging blindly. It didn't matter where and what he struck, as long as it made contact.

Clarke quickly recovered with a somersault. She avoided the advance with ease, only to be back on both feet, absent one thing.

"Looking for this, Nightblood?"

The Tyrant wielded her Damascus steel. He had double swords, while Clarke had nothing but a measly dagger.

"Death to Heda!"

The Tyrant charged at Clarke, and he aimed with precision at vital areas of the body. Again, and again, and again. The assault was vicious and well timed.

Clarke had nothing to defend herself with. All she could do at this point was retreat. She did her best to avoid the blade, but it was proving difficult. There were many times when the blade was mere inches from piercing her flesh.

A hard kick sent Clarke hurling in the air, to land on the flat of her back. She remained there, motionless, and completely still.

The Tyrant wasted no time in finishing what he started. He raised his sword up high, and he swung it down as hard as he could.

Clarke caught the blade with the bare of her hand. The steel carved into her sweet flesh, only stopping when it struck a bone. She yanked the sword, and used it to pull the Tyrant in. When he was close enough, she kicked him square in the balls.

The Tyrant fell to his knees, but refused to give up. He wielded a second sword, but to no avail.

Clarke was much faster. She grabbed the Tyrant by his head, and she pulled his head into her chest, as if to hug him. With her uninjured hand, she pulled out her dagger, and she plunged it deep within his chest cavity.

The Tyrant gurgled incoherently. And with an unsatisfactory sigh, he fell back.

When it was finally over, Clarke fell to her knees from sheer exhaustion. It was close. Too close. The cut on her hand was deep. And the black blood that oozed from the wound was thick. At the very least, she wasn't bleeding out rapidly. There were upsides to being a Nightblood.

The walls were claustrophobic. And the space strewed with hunks of junk. Clarke couldn't find her sword; it was nowhere to be seen.

"Fuck."

A Nightblood's sword was sacred. If she lost it, Titus was going to have her first-born child for it.

Clarke retraced her steps.

The Tyrant rose from the dead. He pulled the dagger from his chest, and he lunged at Clarke with it.

Unfortunately, Clarke had her back turned. By the time she realized what was happening, it was already too late.

A shadow jumped off the wall, and over Clarke. A quick swoosh was all that was heard.

The head rolled off the Tyrant's shoulder, and it fell to the floor with a hardened thump.

The shadow figure took off its hood to reveal the face beneath.

"I should've known it was you."

"Whenever someone saves you, it's customary to say 'thank you', is it not?"

"I didn't need you to save me, Lexa."

Lexa sheathed her sword. Her boots clicked against the cold cement floor. She picked up the Tyrant's severed head. The eyes were still moving, and bouncing about, beneath the eyelids. "Saving you was secondary."

"Oh. Is that so?"

"It is." Lexa waved the head in Clarke's face. "It was the bounty that I'm after."

"You can't do that." Clarke tried to grab the head back, "I was the —"

Clarke wanted to object, but was stopped dead in her tracks by the blade of Lexa.

"Let this be a lesson: never turn your back on an enemy"

"I didn't realize you were the enemy."

"I'm not." Lexa flipped her sword over, and she slashed her palm open. "Hold out your hand."

Clarke really didn't want to. But she didn't have a choice, either. The gash was deep. And frankly, it was hurting like no tomorrow. Clarke held her hand out, and Lexa squeezed her nightblood onto the gaping wound.

The moment the nightblood made contact with the cut, it immediately clotted and ceased to bleed. A few seconds more, and the wound began to visibly shrink until it was nothing more than an abrasion. A full minute, and the cavernous wound was reduced to nothing more than a scab.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Clarke." Lexa said. "But this bounty is still mine."

And with that, Lexa slowly made her way back to the elevator shaft.

Clarke sighed, and said, "If you're going to steal my bounty, the least you can do is help me find my sword."

Lexa kept on walking.

"Jerk."

\- o -

 **A/N: All aboard! Have your tickets out, and ready for inspection. Next stop: Clexa. Population: You're welcome.**


End file.
